Page 34 of Veiled Flames
“Thank you.” It seems like the right thing to say, and he smiles as he looks down into my eyes.
I’m hoping he’ll kiss me again, but he drops to sit on the cot and pulls a long blade from a sheath in his boot.
Turning me away from him, he gathers my hair from behind.
“Now,” he says softly. “Instead of defiling a princess, I will commit another high crime. The crime of defiling her beautiful hair.”
Thirteen
Rosomon
My body won’t stop humming. An entire night and day have passed since Saxon kissed me, and yet my lips are still burning, my heart is still galloping, and I can’t banish the man from my thoughts.
I’m not certain what would have happened had he kissed me again, or had he touched meundermy clothing. In my dreams he’s done both, and I now understand some of the jokes made by my fellow rider candidates during our travels. And why some have wondered whether there will be wenches to serve us at camp.
Before my time in Saxon’s tent, I assumed my compeers meant they were hoping for wenches to clean our tents, or to prepare our baths and our meals, but I misunderstood. The lads are hoping for wenches to push their rods inside.
The bumpy terrain vibrates my cleft against the bench’s hard wooden surface, which only increases my thoughts of Saxon and his tent. He wasn’t kidding when he said the travel movingforward would be more challenging. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re now well into the Verax alps, and sometime soon we’ll head through the Drakmoor Pass.
The wagon jolts, and I’m lurched from leaning one way to the other. After our long uphill climb, we must have crested a ridge to head downhill. Confirming my assumption, the pace of the wagon accelerates, and the rumble of hard wheels over stones vibrates inside me even harder.
Closing my eyes, I touch my lips, allowing my memories to transport me from this noisy wagon and into Saxon’s arms. As the vibrations penetrate my body, my body rocks with the movement of travel. My insides are pulsing, my body giving me a thrill—an echo of Saxon’s touch between my legs.
It’s not the same. A muted version. And yet I’ve grown damp and slippery between my legs again. My cheeks heat as I enjoy the sensation.
The thought of something long and hard pushing into my cleft is terrifying. The act must be unbearably painful—the mare neighed in agony—and yet my curiosity and desire continue to build. Unpleasant or not, I long to know how it feels. Even if I don’t enjoy it, isn’t it better to know?
The wagon bumps to a sudden stop.
Samyull slides off his seat, landing hard on the wooden floor.
“Are you hurt?” I help him up, as the other boys laugh.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Areyouquite alright?”
“Of course.” I look at Samyull quizzically. “Why?” I didn’t fall off the seat.
He shrugs. “All day you’ve been elsewhere. Caught in a dream. And your cheeks are quite flushed. Did you not sleep well last eve?”
“I am quite well.” I need to be more careful. If Samyull has noticed my change in mood, the others might too.
Voices shout outside the wagon, and I open a shutter.
We are very near the edge of a sharp cliff. Too near. I open a shutter on the other side of the wagon to discover we are even closer to a rock face—almost touching it. Egon opens the door at the back of our wagon and calls out, “What’s going on?”
From behind us, Prince Tynan gallops along the road toward our wagon. He stops so sharply that rocks fly up around his stallion’s hooves and Egon has to shield his face.
I shake my head. Tynan doesn’t deserve such a fine steed.
The Prince loops his horse’s reins around a rung on the back of the wagon, one the servants use to climb atop it, and then he disappears. Kneeling on the bench, I look out the portal, as he passes on the cliff side of the wagon.
Seeing him, I gasp.
His stride breaks, and he turns to face me. I quickly cast my eyes down, feeling as if I’ve been struck by lightning. There’s something about the swirling greens in Tynan’s eyes which affects me each time I see them up close. Something I vow to avoid doing again at all costs. Not only do IdetestTynan, I can’t risk being recognized.
Egon gets off the wagon and then walks past us, his back pressed against its wooden side, evidenced as the top of his head slides past the portal.
Behind the wagon, Prince Tynan’s horse neighs, and so I get out to check on the stallion. His coat is slick with sweat, his mouth heavy with foam from the bit. I have no idea when Tynan last let the beast drink, but it has been many hours since we passed a stream.
